


Unhealed Wounds

by i_know_its_0ver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_know_its_0ver/pseuds/i_know_its_0ver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John still has nightmares about the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhealed Wounds

Sometimes John still had nightmares about the war. Dreams where he watched his comrades' lives slipping away and could do nothing to save them. Dreams where he could feel the pain in his leg as if the bullet had just struck him. These dreams left him tossing and turning, waking up drenched in sweat, chest heaving with fear and pain and repressed sobs which threatened to drown him.

These dreams came less often now than they used to. The limp in his leg had disappeared, and his hands trembled less and less, but in his sleep, with nothing to distract him, he could not let go of those memories completely.

Sherlock had noticed John's nightmares shortly after he moved in. John's room was upstairs, but the walls were thin, and Sherlock, being as hyper observant as he was, could pick up on John's muffled moans of distress and the creaking of his bed frame as he tossed about. The next morning he would come down to breakfast looking worn out and pour himself two cups of coffee.

It didn't take a genius detective to figure out what was wrong. Sherlock had deduced on first glance that John was a veteran, and he knew about his psychosomatic wounds. But still, identifying a problem and solving it were two entirely different things. And Sherlock wasn't used to a problem he couldn't solve.

At first he had left well enough alone. John was a reserved man, and Sherlock highly doubted that he would want an audience for his weaknesses. And as the attacks seemed to come less and less frequently over time, there seemed no need to intervene.

But then there was the day it all went to hell.

They had been called in on a fairly straightforward homicide case, and Sherlock had it solved in under three hours. But the case had clearly rattled John. The victim had been a young man, no older than 25, with short dark hair, shot through the chest. At first Sherlock could not understand John's dumbfounded expression. He simply stared at the corpse with a blank look on his face, as if the world had stopped moving. When Sherlock pulled him out of his thoughts he apologized quickly, and went about distracting himself with other tasks, staying as far from the body as he could.

On the way home Sherlock had question John about his reaction. It had been peculiar indeed. They had both seen so many dead bodies before that it had become almost routine. And yet this one had affected John so profoundly. Did he know the victim?

John explained that back in his army days he had known a young man very much like the one they had seen today; similar in age, similar in looks, and similar in the wound that had killed him. It had been so eerily reminiscent that John couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu.

Sherlock listened to this story without comment, unsure of how to reassure his friend. There was nothing he could do about John's past, and he would not offer any empty words of sympathy that would accomplish nothing.

He had been expecting it, but it still shocked him a bit when he heard John's torments that night. It was much louder and more vivid than in the past. He could hear John sobbing and calling out to a friend who would never again answer. It nearly broke Sherlock's normally placid heart to listen to his friend's agony.

Without stopping to consider his friend's pride or embarrassment, Sherlock dashed up the stairs, opening John's bedroom door softly and entering. John was still moaning, but he had stilled momentarily. Sherlock slipped into the bed beside him, pulling John's body into his arms, cradling his head with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. Sherlock had never comforted someone before, but it came instinctively. He whispered soothing words, pulling the tortured young man out of his dreams and back to the world.

It took a few moments for John to calm down, but he didn't wake. Instead he seemed to pass into calmer dreams, and he remained quiet and still.

Sherlock stayed with him until morning, drifting in and out of sleep himself. He left shortly before dawn, extricating himself carefully so as not to awaken the peacefully sleeping John. He tiptoed back to his own room, collapsing on his bed.

When John awoke everything would be as it always was.


End file.
